The Smell of Telescopes (35 page)

All the animals had left the mountains, so that owls and bears and wolves did not trouble her dreams, which meant she could not sleep. The fire dimmed and flickered out and her father’s sword, stuck in the damp earth, seemed to wink away with it, for it refused to reflect the stars which poked through rents in the aerial vapours. This was a bad omen. A dull sound of surf cleansed her ears; the gasps of shipwrecked men. The deep was feasting, with rocks for teeth and foam for spit. When sunrise warmed her coffee jug and she rose to sip, she was more tired than when she had gone to bed, but the sounds of death had died, empty bubbles on the vocal tide of the newly awakened Humberto, and she laughed secretly to herself at the power of a mistress, in this case the ocean, but soon herself, to silence even phantoms.

Federico wasted little time before setting them off again, and she experienced an urge to carefully note every tiny change of direction as they continued out of the Picos. They passed the very last caves in the range, all of which had been boarded up, and then down into the meadows and vineyards below Cangas de Onís, stealing grapes, chewing these eggs of sherry on hoof and sole. They greeted a plague of shrews in the town of Infiesto, final refugees from Ugolino’s whim, and the matador fought against a river of teeth, swishing a cat as a cape. When the danger was over, the thin alleys came alive for the first time in weeks and barmen and whores offered him much gratitude in barrels and thighs. He refused but smoked a cigar at the base of a strawberry tree. Clean emotions are best in every prelude to any duel.

The ultimate stretch of the voyage was inappropriately pleasant, a cool fertile realm of fields and stone cottages and mineshafts brimming with blossoms. Then they entered Oviedo and attempted to ignore all the blue faces which peeped from high windows. The citizens were monstrous, famished, lean, corrupted by the gross presence of the Cadiz tribe. The horse was nervous, but Federico whistled a jaunty air, and his wife and daughter knew his melody was determined by a mouth which wanted to lick its own blood, by lips thirsty in the wrong way, and too cheerful about it, so they shivered as they skirted the remnants of the city wall, the Calle del Paraiso, pausing at the gate of the Palacio Arzobispal, which Ugolino had requisitioned and altered to his own peculiar tastes. A big building like a swollen sepulchre.

As they approached, the gate swung open, operated by hidden levers and weights. Guards were unnecessary, for no thief would dare to pilfer from here, unless they cared to be transmuted into a flintlock felon or matchlock miscreant, with their souls as a single charge, sparking away from existence on the reverse side of a firing squad, a perverted style of execution invented by Ugolino in his cups. The matador strolled into a courtyard and was met by a dwarf, Uranus Cadiz, who acted as a fabled servant to the rest of the family, rarely to be found when needed. This was a special occasion, so he bowed to the level of an imp and took the reins. Marina and Juanita dismounted and blinked at the garish carvings and tapestries which tickled the columns and lopsided balconies. With a low snarl, Uranus led them inside.

Federico slitted his eyes as he traversed the passage, for what he saw on both sides, through open doors, defied imagination and geometry. At one point he became separated from his wife and child, even from his stunted escort, and whirled in a panic. But there were voices ahead; he assumed they had taken a shortcut and hurried to catch up. A quick stab of light and he was back in the open, but not in the streets of Oviedo. Still enclosed by the walls of the Palacio, a miniature bullring basted in the noonday sun. The tiers were steep and pegged with rotting rails. This was the heart of the edifice and it pulsed with humid evil. Barely one inch of seating was manifest, for the exclusively Cadizite audience had squeezed so tightly onto the narrow rows that the arena appeared to be made wholly of ulcerated flesh.

For Juanita, this entrance of her father into the amphitheatre was a disappointment, and she felt shame for treating him with an impartial eye. He should have strutted into the centre of the bowl of sand, blade shining in the faces of his tormentors, sequins burning up the graceful curve of his back, but he shambled as if he knew not where he was. Back in the passage, Uranus had directed her and Marina through a side door, up a flight of steps, assuring them Federico was being prepared for the combat. They had emerged in the
gradas
, the zone of cheapest seating at the very top. Before scurrying off, the dwarf pointed at a box directly opposite them, a covered gallery where the most important Cadizites sat and nibbled sugared eyelashes. Dressed in the simplest clothes, Ugolino suddenly glanced up from his meal.

“He is winking at me,” muttered Marina.

“Not with his eye,” fumed Juanita.

“Yes, it is arrogant to wink with a dish. But he is not as ugly as his name indicates. Do you agree?”

“Father will kill his ridiculous bull.”

Chewing her lower lip, the daughter studied the other occupants of the gallery, trying to fix their faces in her memory. A few were guests from awkward climes or declining cultures. There was Bartleby, who gave her the impression of a bottle of sour wine swaddled in a placenta; his jaw was flexing in a mad grin but his eyes were uncertain and roved the crowd. Next to him sat Unfortunato, and behind him, Gaspar, Maurice and Isabel. From the armpit of Africa, now in the groin of misery, crouched Desmond, with a companion mirror, perhaps his wife or shadow; he tended to lurk in cupboards. Carmen, Tomasso, Brigida, Fizcko, Horace, Rosalie and Manuel. Higher up, Omensetter, gassy and lucky. Moving to the back, Portia and Wormy. And Planton, judged to be even crueller than Ugolino, with massive spectacles on a pole.

At the bottom, restrained by shackles, tongue held fast by an iron gag, so that Ugolino was able to lean over and pinch it easily with hot tongs at regular intervals, squirmed Hoopdriver, the only good Cadizite in the history of the universe. His life was sacred as a family member, but his genes were tormented to prevent them reappearing in the future. Such was the crew of fascinating brutes who had assembled to sample the bloodshed. The mob in the auditorium were mostly pale versions of these boxed elite and Juanita felt no fear while watching them, only disgust. Now the matador finally seemed to grasp his plight and stood with sword and cape raised. The crowd chuckled, but not at his elegance; they were watching Ugolino, who was making obscure, possibly obscene, gestures at Marina. Then the trumpets sounded.

“Federico Zanahoria versus Rutilicus Azelfafage!”

A very broad door in the side of the stadium slid open, disgorging Uranus, who hefted a spade and a bucket of coal. The spectators laughed again, but a curious disinterest gripped them; most were not looking at the dwarf, or what followed him out. Juanita frowned. Was this a circus show before the main event? No, for the thing that emerged had the head and shoulders of a bull. But it was silver and encrusted with bolts and rivets. It dragged a network of iron pipes on the ground, like a bundle of hissing entrails. This was no injury; it was a machine of some kind, with a fire in its belly and boiling water in its limbs. Then the metal horns swivelled and Ugolino fell back in his seat, helpless with mirth. The dwarf cracked the beast on the flank with his spade and its crystal eyes tumbled within their sockets.

For an instant it seemed it might turn on him and the tiny face of Uranus quivered, but the myopic beast caught sight of Federico and some intelligence that was not even bovine caused it to lower its giant head and paw the dust into a cloud. Federico dropped his sword and cape, for he knew he was doomed and that he should avoid absurdity as he died. Into his hand from his wrist fell the cheating pistol, but he had no time to aim it at Ugolino or any of the other major Cadizites. He would have to try for a ricochet. With a force and speed that so numbed the mind that nobody was astonished, the bull rushed him. He fired his flintlock at a point between its eyes. That was the last he knew. The automaton had no chance to fix him on a horn; it knocked him down in the wind of its run and trampled him to a purple pulp.

The bullet glinted in the air and whistled toward the gallery. The mob gasped in alarm. Even Ugolino quaked. Then Hoopdriver broke his gag and cried: “I have been murdered!”

Juanita saw her father caught by the trailing pipes and dragged in the wake of the beast, which was unable to stop and crashed through the far side of the stadium, with Uranus in desperate pursuit. The sound of smashing crockery rose above the concerned mumble of the crowd. Ugolino raised his arms for silence and announced Rutilicus as the victor, with nothing forfeit, despite the havoc it was now wreaking in the kitchens, so that they might all have to go hungry at the next orgy. Uranus would be baked instead. Then the bets were settled. Juanita sighed as the man next to her passed a bundle of notes to his neighbour, who passed it on in turn, until the money had completed a full circuit of the auditorium and was back in the pocket of its original owner. All had lost; all had won. It was the same on every row.

She turned to express her irritation to her mother, because it was too early to absorb the larger enormity of Federico’s death, and sorrow appropriate for that would have to be matured in the cask of her skull. But Marina had gone. The seat was empty. Then she noted Ugolino leaving his gallery through curtains at the back. Juanita picked her way out of the gradas, stumbling over feet, scrambling over knees. Other bets were still revolving. She reached the exit without being challenged. Now she was in a maze of corridors, but her sense of direction, evolved on that trip from Espinama, helped her to navigate toward a room directly under the gallery. She guessed this was Ugolino’s private residence. The door was open and she crept inside. The chamber was stuffed with statues, so it was easy to run through unseen.

In the very centre, surrounded by ornaments of dubious function, a man and woman were dancing. Ugolino held Marina tightly about the waist and spun her so that her black hair erupted like an obsidian wave. Rage beyond swords came upon Juanita, but she realised that Ugolino had cast an enchantment upon her mother, possibly with his finger signals before the fight. But her steps were despicable. The accelerated saraband, for it was not a fast dance but a slow one speeded up, grew more passionate and Ugolino lowered his thick lips to those of his partner. Eyes closed in ecstasy, she accepted his tongue and stubble. Then her bodice seemed to swell of its own accord, so that the laces burst, one by one, with a joyous note, like an arpeggio on a scented guitar, and her breasts rose out to accept his bruising homage.

Juanita scowled and plotted revenge, but Ugolino would not succumb to a toy knife. She must be more devious. She slithered over to the bed which stood in a niche, reinforced springs awaiting the combined weight of master and mistress, and mulled her options. If she hid below, until his will was accomplished, might she leap up and exploit his exhaustion with a pillow pressed over his face? Unlikely. She peered under the bed and noticed a book, a huge tome with a crinkled cover. Reaching for it, she was astounded by the clammy touch of the warty leather. It was much too heavy to be a normal volume; even the poems of Humberto were not as ponderous as this work. Obviously a grimoire, a magical book. A cunning retribution, for the theft of his treasured manual of spells would hurt him in a style above the physical.

She clutched the tome to her chest and crept out, behind the array of statues, most of Cadizites, some lacking heads, and took a last peep at the dancers before departing. But her mother was not a traitor after all, for she had somehow fled Ugolino’s embrace! She had vanished. What trick had she played to escape? The magician did not seem depressed. He danced with a musket instead. And the weapon had a trigger which smiled not unlike Marina. Ugolino was working the ramrod on it with long, slow strokes, but the smell of powder was absent. Very peculiar! Best not to linger. Her mother had probably rushed out of the Palacio, into Oviedo, and would head out of town back to the Picos. She would do likewise. At home they might scheme the downfall of the Cadiz tribe, petitioning the King or even the Papal ambassador.

Returning to the courtyard, she was bewildered that Marina had not taken the horse. It was still tethered to a column. There were cries, a boiling roar. Rutilicus and Uranus were coming! Having no desire to see Federico’s broken corpse, Juanita untied the steed, mounted it and rode out of the nightmare. The book of magic slowed her down, but she was as quick as a cough, which is adequate. She kept searching for her mother, but the streets and surrounding country were deserted. Then she was out of the malign influence of Oviedo and galloping back to the forests. No appetite for meals or sleep; she continued until the horse collapsed in a froth and then rested next to it. Fitful dreams of bulls. And islands groaning with gold. The taste of rum and lime. Typhoons. And her father stroking her cheek with an anchor.

When the horse had recovered, she rode it at a kinder pace through the vineyards, fixing her gaze on the horizon for the highest mountains of her homeland. But the Picos did not appear. Then she reached the rim of a mysterious lake, at the very place where the foothills should have risen. So where was the range? And where was her mother? The slopes had evaporated like kisses on the neck of geography. Ugolino had stolen the heights and the waters of the sea had rushed in to replace them! He had cut an inlet in the back of Asturias, removed the spine and flushed the wound like a surgeon who sweats into a patient. She realised the shouts of the drowning sailors had come from lost ships sucked into the sudden vortex, and the mist was the breath of old prayer. Here were the bodies of those men, on this false beach.

She paddled in the surf and opened the volume of spells. To hurl a curse on Ugolino: true joy! But the pages were crammed with complicated diagrams, and words in a bizarre alphabet. It might take years of study to unravel these secrets. She would apply herself diligently, but first she needed to grow up, become strong, powerful, respected. A child with a grimoire is a prime target for the Inquisition. She would nurture her anger until it was taller than a tower of every living Cadizite stacked one atop another. From the middle of the tome, marking a chapter on the fabrication of steam automata, slid out a dagger with a single ruby for a hilt. An extravagant bookmark and contributor to the manual’s weight. Sharp and unique and exactly what she required, for the revenge she had in mind was going to be expensive.